The Viking Takes a Knight

“I met her at her Coppergate stall in Jorvik. She is beautiful, John. Very beautiful.”

  It takes a beauty to recognize a beauty. “Joanna is not my mistress.”

  She made a scoffing sound of disbelief.

  “A mistress implies a man providing for a woman in exchange for sexual favors. A long-term arrangement involving a house, gifts, an allowance. I give none of those to Joanna.”

  “You mean she does it all for free?”

  Yea, she does, but not for lack of my offering. “’Tis improper for you to be discussing such a subject with me, Ingrith.”

  “Pfff! Those rules only apply to young, impressionable girlings. Why do you not wed her?”

  John had just taken a sip of mead and began to choke.

  “Yea, John, why do you not wed the fair Joanna?” Hamr inquired.

  He cast a glower at Hamr and put up a halting hand to Ingrith. “No more! I will not discuss Joanna or any other woman with you.”

  She opened her mouth, about to speak, then clicked her teeth shut on a whooshy exhale.

  He dipped his spoon into the flummery. The blend of peaches and cream and, yea, honey again, burst onto his tongue with exquisite flavor. “You really are a good cook,” he admitted to Ingrith.

  “I told you so.” She laughed with delight.

  Just then he glanced to his other side, then quickly glanced again. Bolthor was rising from his chair, and he had that dreamy expression on his face that portended a saga about to be told.

  “Nay!” He jumped so quickly, he knocked his chair over, then tipped against Bolthor, who fell backward and hit the dais heavily, with John atop him. They would probably have to replace some floorboards on the morrow.

  “M’lord?” Bolthor inquired, squinting up at him with his one good eye.

  “Sorry,” he murmured and stood, extending a helping hand to the skald to rise, too. “I tripped.”

  “And horses can fly.” Hamr chortled behind him.

  “Is he demented?” he heard Ingrith ask Hamr.

  He was fairly certain she was inquiring about him, not Bolthor.

  “Absolutely,” Hamr replied.

  “No harm done,” Bolthor said. “I was just about to recite a new poem. Is that all right with you, m’lord?”

  What could he say after nigh knocking the man dead?

  “Oh, please do,” Hamr encouraged.

  “Yea, I would love to hear one of your fine poems,” Ingrith said.

  Dost think so, you interfering wench? It will serve you right to hear what Bolthor has to say. So be it!

  After straightening his chair, John sat down and put his face in his hands.

  “This is the story of John of Hawk’s Lair.” Bolthor cleared his throat and began:

  In the land of the Saxons,

  a noble knight did reign.

  Then came a Viking lass

  who had a heart-shaped ass…

  Ingrith’s screech of horror was probably heard all the way to Jorvik.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Beware of rogues with angel faces…

  Ingrith was a Viking princess raised in a keep with five hundred men, some of whom were borderline berserk, by a father who had once had a hole drilled in his head, by choice. She and her four princess sisters once killed a Saxon earl, by choice. She was on the run with the green-haired, illegitimate son of the king of all Britain.

  But this…this situation she found herself in here at Hawk’s Lair was beyond the realm of barmy. A Viking poet talking about her bottom before a room full of mostly men.

  But Ingrith plopped back down to her seat when John yanked on her arm and whispered, “’Tis best to let him go. You will only call attention to yourself and prompt even worse poems. Believe me, I know.”

  Because he had been interrupted mid-thought, Bolthor started over.

  In the land of the Saxons,

  a noble knight did reign.

  Then came a Viking lass

  who had a heart-shaped ass.

  She liked cooking.

  He liked beehiving.

  Both were smitten with honey

  But what they did not see

  Was the best honey to thrive

  Was not found in a hive.

  “Very good,” Hamr said, applauding a beaming Bolthor.

  “I do not understand,” she whispered to John.

  “You do not want to understand,” he assured her, barely stifling a grin.

  She noticed that Hamr and many of the men in the hall were grinning as well. Or smirking.

  Frowning with confusion, an idea came unbidden to her. “Surely, Bolthor did not mean…”

  John nodded. “He did.”

  Of a sudden, the prospect of her and John as a couple held an odd appeal. He was even better looking than she remembered. Black hair cut short in the Norman style. A body suited to his erstwhile warrior duties. And a face that the One-God’s angels would envy. But then that should be no surprise. His mother, Lady Eadyth, was once referred to as the Silver Jewel of Northumbria because of her beauty.

  Still, Bolthor telling one and all that she and John were potential lovers? “’Tis an outrage.”

  “That it is, but Bolthor does not mean to give offense. He truly believes no subject is forbidden. Why do you think he is here and not at home with his family?”

  “Why?” she asked hesitantly, not sure she wanted to know.

  “Because he wrote an ode to his wife’s breasts.”

  She slapped a hand over her mouth, but her giggle escaped nonetheless.

  “You are comely, even in boy’s garb, but when you smile, Ingrith, you are beyond beautiful.”

  “I am not!”

  “I can see why Loncaster pursues you.”

  “Pursue is the key word. I have ne’er encouraged him.”

  “Why? As I recall, he is a man women call handsome. Oh, he has a reputation for cruelty, but no worse than many soldiers. And he is high placed enough in his association with the king.”

  “He is cruel, as you say, but not just in soldiering. His aggression repulses me.”

  “What has he done? Surely, he has not assaulted you. If so, I will take your case to the king.”

  She shook her head sharply. “Everything but assault, and that is all I will say on the subject.”

  “You think he will come here.”

  “Unfortunately, he will. And stop looking at me like that…as if you wonder at my hidden assets to draw such a man.”

  “I already know your hidden assets,” he pointed out, then glanced down, noticing her hands fisted on the table. “You want to hit me, don’t you?”

  “If it would not create a scene, I would.”

  “Let us make a deal, Ingrith. I can act as point guard in deflecting Loncaster’s suit, but you must let me handle it my way, without your interference.”

  “But, you do not know…”

  “’Tis that, or you are on your way.”

  This would be the time for her to tell John that lust was not Loncaster’s only reason for coming here. She should inform him of Henry’s identity. And how they’d managed to rescue the girls from the brothel. And Kavil’s story, too.

  But she kept her silence, praying that they would be gone before John would need to know. That night she wrote a missive to her sister Tyra, asking that she find a longship to take them to the Norselands.

  She would have to put up with her father’s machinations for the sake of the orphans.

  Finger lickin’ good…

  The next morning, Ingrith decided that she had to do something about Henry’s green hair. ’Twas true, it was no longer buttercup yellow, but green would call attention to him just the same.

  She came up with an idea. She would shave Henry’s head. But wait, Henry’s bald head would then stand out from all the others. Therefore, Ingrith decided that she would shave all the young boys’ heads.

  Should I ask for John’s permission?

  Nay, I would then have to explain why.

 
Besides, bald boyling heads may become the new fashion.

  She was deboning pigeons early that afternoon when John came storming into the kitchen, pushing a half dozen bald boylings before him. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

  “Head lice?” she offered.

  “We have an epidemic of head lice at Hawk’s Lair?”

  “Not an epidemic. More like a large amount in small children.”

  “Heaven help me! You are not going to shave the girlings’ heads, too, are you?”

  “Nay. Only the young boys are infected.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “Why do you have that nervous tic in your one eye? My sister Emma always tic’d when she told a lie.”

  “’Tis just from peeling onions.” She could feel herself tic-ing some more.

  He glanced around pointedly. Not an onion in sight.

  “How are the bee studies going today, m’lord? Can I help?”

  “You cannot help. The best way to help is keep the children away from the honey shed. And, by the by, Emma also m’lorded me when she had something to hide.” On those words, he exited the kitchen. Thank the gods! She would like to m’lord him a good one…with her soup ladle.

  The rest of the day was calmer than the day before as they all settled in. She figured it would be at least a few days before Loncaster would figure she was gone and begin searching. Maybe she would hear from Tyra in the meantime.

  Ubbi had been charged with taking some of the older children berry picking, much to his chagrin. “Guardsmen do not act as child minders,” he complained. But Ingrith needed Ubbi out of the way for a bit since he kept insult-pricking at John to get a reaction.

  It was late afternoon when Breaca approached her and said she couldn’t find Henry. Ingrith washed the flour off her hands and began hunting. Everywhere. It was only when she looked in John’s honey shed, as a last resort, that she stopped dead in her tracks.

  Henry, looking adorable rather than foolish with his shaved head, was perched on John’s knee. John, sitting on a high stool before a table arrayed with various pots of honey, was explaining something about honey to the little boy. At the other end of the room, Kavil—also with a bald head, which suited him, oddly—was examining a series of honeycombs cross-sectioned to show the various stages of production. Later, she would examine it closer for her own edification.

  “What are these?” Kavil asked, having moved closer to a long, rectangular box with little partitioned cubicles containing dozens of dead bees of all sizes and colors.

  “Those are species of bees from all over the world,” John said. “There are hundreds, mayhap thousands, of species, all different. The biggest ones are queen bees. The others are drones and worker bees.”

  “What is a thousan’?” Henry wanted to know.

  John laughed. “Well, let’s say, if you were covered from head to toe with bees, every speck of your skin, that would probably be a thousand.”

  Henry shivered with disgust.

  “Every day the queen bee lays two to three thousand eggs to form new bees.” He let that information seep in to both Henry and Kavil, who was listening intently, despite his distance. They were probably picturing three of Henry covered with bees. “Even more amazing, in just one beehive, there can be more than fifty thousand bees.”

  “Fifty?” Henry said with amazement. Ingrith knew that the boy understood because she had been practicing his numbers with him up to one hundred. Again, he and Kavil were probably picturing fifty bee-covered Henrys.

  Ingrith was impressed with both John’s patience and his ability to teach the boys a lesson at their level of understanding.

  “I don’t like bees,” Kavil declared suddenly, stepping back from the display of bees he’d been studying. “They sting.”

  “Actually, bees only attack when threatened. If you don’t move abruptly, they’ll probably avoid you.”

  Kavil didn’t look convinced, and actually, Ingrith was surprised that the boy even stayed in a room with a strange man. Because of his past abuse, he usually avoided contact with adult men. Ubbi was the exception.

  “You should know, Kavil, that bees are very clean. They never relieve themselves inside the hive. In fact, in the winter, when you see little squirts of yellow in the snow, it is probably bee piss. Or sometimes you’ll see it on light colored laundry laid out to dry in the summer.”

  “You jest!” Kavil said, gracing John with one of his rare smiles.

  John smiled back, then turned to Henry. “Hold out your hand, Samuel,” John said, at the same time motioning Kavil to come closer. Samuel was the fake name they’d given Henry.

  Henry held out both hands, palm side up. John shook a flower over both of them, and a fine yellow powder settled on the skin.

  “That is pollen. It doesn’t always look the same, but all flowers have it. When you see a bee sitting on a flower, it is gathering pollen to take back to the hive.”

  Henry scrooched his nose up with confusion.

  “The funny thing is, Samuel…the bee eats the pollen and then he vomits it up back at the hive. Eventually that’s what turns into honey.”

  “’Tis not!” The rascal poked John in the arm with a fist. “Yer jestin’ me.”

  John put a hand over his heart. “I swear.”

  Henry shifted off of his lap and ran for the door. No doubt to inform all the other children that they had been eating bee vomit and wearing sherts with bee spew on them. Kavil followed reluctantly behind him. He’d probably have stayed behind, but would not do so alone.

  John looked over and noticed her then.

  “You are amazing,” she said.

  “I know,” he replied, and winked at her.

  She did not want to think what that mere wink did to her.

  “Did you want something, Ingrith, that you invade my honey domain?”

  Not sure if he was teasing or not, she walked closer. “I’m sorry if they were bothering you. I didn’t realize they were gone.”

  “I was ready for a break.”

  “You enjoy sharing your knowledge about bees, don’t you?”

  He shrugged. “Sometimes. For example, bees are a lot like men and women when it comes to mating, did you know that?”

  The twinkle in his blue eyes told her that he was about to impart some inappropriate message. “First off, only the most healthy, virile drone bees can mate with the queen bee, midair, high above the ground.”

  “Just like men, virility being prized, I suppose?”

  “Exactly. The thing is, once the mating is complete, the drone dies. Is that not just like a woman? Lets a man prick her, than stabs him through the heart first chance she gets.”

  “You know the wrong kind of women, methinks.”

  “Leastways, when you see bees swarming high above the ground, they are probably virile male drones just looking for a passing female to tup.”

  “You do have a way with words. I do not think I have e’er heard of tupping bees afore.”

  “Here’s another interesting fact, m’lady.” If eyes could dance, his were now. And it was a delightful sight. “There is a language that bees have amongst themselves. ’Tis called the wag-tail dance. By the way a bee wags its rump…the number of times, the direction, and so on…it is indicating to the other bees such information as the distance from the hive to a food source.”

  She waited, arms folded over her chest, for his zinger. It was not long in coming.

  “Just like a woman. She jiggles her rump and sways her hips to send men certain messages.”

  “I have ne’er jiggled my body parts.”

  “Oh, you jiggle, all right,” he asserted with a grin.

  With face flaming, she wandered closer to a second long table where many pottery jars and a few glass containers were arranged in an orderly fashion. “The honey colors are so different. How can you tell them apart?”

  She was surprised when he didn’t just tell her to begone. Instead, he swung around on his high stool, and rep
lied, “Long years of study. First, at my mother’s knee. You know she is an avid beekeeper. Then, studies of my own. When I went to Frankland years ago to fight for my king, I noticed the honey was different there. As it is in the Arab lands, or Cordoba, or even the Norselands.”

  “But the colors! None of them are the same.”

  “Honey can be clear as water or dark as amber. It all depends on the flowers. Unless the bees are segregated by particular plants, they gather pollen from many different flowers, producing what we call millefiori honey. As you can imagine, that way there is no consistency of taste or color from one harvest to the next or from one hive to the next. That is the type of honey most folks are familiar with.” He glanced at her, then grimaced. “My tongue runs away with itself when it comes to bees and honey.”

  “I know that you study the healing properties of honey, but I wonder if different honeys would be particularly suitable for certain dishes.”

  “For a certainty. Blueberry honey, for example, is rich and dense. If you let it rest in your mouth afore swallowing, you can actually taste the berries. Here, try it.” He put a small amount of a dark amber honey on a small wooden spoon and pressed it to her mouth.

  She let it sit on her tongue, as directed, but the only thing she could think of was, I wish he could have given it to me on his finger so that I could lick it. Like he did my fingers yestereve. What an incredible sensation that was!

  Oh, my gods and goddesses, I am becoming lustsome over a man, and not just any man. A man who has a beautiful mistress. She began to choke, and John smacked her on the back.

  “You did not like it?”

  “I loved it,” she said, feeling foolish for her wandering thoughts. “Were these pottery jars made by your mistress?”

  He wagged a finger at her. “I told you that Joanna is not my mistress. And, yea, she made most of these.” He went to the end of the table and dipped a spoon into a medium-amber-colored honey. Each jar had its own spoon. “My favorite is this rare honey. It comes from the sorrel or sourwood tree that a friend brought me from a land beyond Iceland. The tree has flowers that grow in pendant-like clusters, much like lily of the valley.” He handed the small spoon to her to taste.